


With You

by downdeepinside



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, But not super happy, I believe the ending is kind of realistic, I can't write pregnant John, M/M, Mpreg, Mycroft is my fave okay, Sherlock is trying, So I won't tag that, Teenlock, This is pretty shit guys, i'll stop now, mention of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/downdeepinside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the age of nineteen John is pregnant with a baby girl. Whilst his boyfriend is still struggling with issues of his own and both his and Sherlock's family heavily object to the idea of the two keeping the child John finds himself facing some difficult decisions.</p><p>Is good intent really good enough a reason to keep a child?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [consultinghomosexual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultinghomosexual/gifts).



> I do not own Sherlock and this if mpreg so tread lightly.
> 
> This is for constuling-homosexual who requested 'teenlock, with preggo John, aaand Sherlock doesn't make it to the birth of their kid because he's high as a kite on some drug or another.'.
> 
> I'm really not so sure about this one but.. eh, I hope you like it? :3 Also I'm sorry this 'ficlet' turned into a 3,000 word pile of poo.
> 
> Oh, furthermore, I have read this through a grand total of three times and didn't inflict the dreadful thing on any beta so there are bound to be mistakes - if you see one and notify me I'll be super grateful and will vanquish the bugger as soon as possible.

A twinge had John pausing in what he was doing and pressing a hand to his abdomen, eyebrows furrowed in concern. He waited quietly for a moment and, when nothing else happened, shrugged it off. Amelia threw a punch to his bladder as if in agreement that nothing could possibly be wrong and he smiled, scooping the cheese and mango toastie up from the kitchen counter and making his way over to the lounge, where he carefully arranged himself on the sofa. A flick of the switch brought BBC Three on and he grinned to himself, an episode of Doctor Who and toasted sandwich seemed just the cure after the day he’d had.

***

The day had started like any other. Well, any other day in which you’re a nineteen year old guy carrying the child of your seventeen year old boyfriend’s baby. John woke up to an empty flat, which hadn’t been particularly surprising – since Sherlock and he moved in together four months ago the boy had hardly spent a week in the flat – and padded out of the bedroom into the living room come dining room, and battled with a jumper, attempting to pull the once perfectly fitting garment over his belly and failing massively. Logically, he knew a jumper that once could fit the athletic body of an eighteen year old was never going to fit the gravid body of a pregnant nineteen year old.

John had helped himself to a couple of waffles (while Sherlock parents were not entirely supportive of their current predicament, they were more than happy to provide money – so long as it was _John_ who spent it) and sagged into the small red sofa where he spent most of his days. His old friends were all off at uni now, it being mid-October, and no employer was particularly anxious to hire a pregnant teenager.

Still, at eight months and two weeks it wasn’t like John would be able to blame his pregnant state for anything much longer. Sooner or later he’d have to face the fact that people weren’t rejecting him because he was pregnant, but because he was a teenager with a child (two children; if you counted his younger drug-addicted pain in the arse of a boyfriend) and the obviously overwhelming ability to make incredibly poor life decisions.

After a rather Mrs Watson-like thought like that John decided he deserved a few more waffles.

Around eleven it occurred to John he hadn’t heard from Sherlock all day and so, a little concerned, he shuffled to the bedroom to retrieve his phone. No missed calls, no messages, and no voice mails: Nothing.

John, deciding he’d rather avoid the panic brought on by an unanswered phone, typed out a text. _Everything alright? –J_

It took precisely one minute for Sherlock to reply: _Sorry; I’ll be home in five minutes._

The fact Sherlock already felt the need to apologise instantly set John on edge, and Amelia seemed to sense it, fidgeting inside of him.

John, it turned out, was right to be worried.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock turned up at the flat half an hour later, an old pair of dark jeans on coupled with a loose purple tee-shirt, what looked suspiciously like John’s new maternity jumper, and a dark hoodie. He’d clearly left early, when it was still cold out. Why he had remained in those clothes was something John didn’t want to think about.

Sherlock was carrying an old satchel that he dumped haphazardly on the floor and he stared at John – who was still sat on the sofa – for a moment before hopping over and placing a kiss on John’s cheek. John blinked at the chaste greeting, resisting the urge to make a comment about how his grandmother gave more passionate kisses. Sherlock flopped down at John’s feet (ignoring John’s disgruntled response) and pulled his knees up to rest under his chin, before proceeding to stare blankly at John’s oversized belly.

After almost ten minutes of silence John broke, “Hello, John. It’s good to see you. How’re you feeling today, you know, since you’re carrying my child and all? Can I get you anything? Perhaps you’d just be curious to know where I’ve been all morning?”

Sherlock’s gaze lifted from John’s stomach and he frowned, “I’m thinking. Can’t this wait?”

John harrumphed, kicking his feet from under Sherlock and swinging up into a standing position before starting to pace directly in front of his inconsiderate twat of a mate.

“No this can’t bloody wait! Sherlock I’m _pregnant_ and all you’ve done since you found out is become more and more estranged. You said you wanted to have this child with me, so what the hell are you doing? You’ve barley spent five minutes in this flat, and you stare at me like _I’m_ the freak here, and then when you do come home you’re always wearing long bloody sleeves to hide your arms, and layers because you’re body temperature is _completely_ off-whack. I’ve just had enough! I want you to be _here_ Sherlock. I want you to be here for me and this baby and not off in some... crack den getting high all the time.”

John span on his heel and stopped, looking down at Sherlock who looked like he about to cry. For a moment John thought the younger boy might actually be experiencing some form of regret before his mind helpfully supplied that after a cocaine high users often experienced a feeling of depression due to the sudden lack of dopamine. As if Sherlock would actually care.

“I’m the freak.”

The words took John by surprise, having expected something bitter and twisted, or some half-hearted attempt at an apology. It took a moment for him to realise Sherlock was echoing him.

“I’m acting like you’re the freak but of course that’s not true, right? That’s what you’re saying. I’m a freak.”

Sherlock stood up before turning away, picking up his satchel and calmly (terrifyingly calmly) heading to the door. He pulled it open and paused a second before turning back.

“Don’t worry, John. I was at least getting my hit in a safe place. Mycroft was there.”

And with that, he left.


	3. Chapter 3

The instant Sherlock left John retrieved his phone and called him, cursing at the dial tone and lazy drawl of, “If this is Mycroft you can piss off, if this is John I’m probably fine so don’t panic, and if this someone else I’m not interested. Thank you.” Followed by a beep indicating he should leave a message. Instead John rang off.

Only a matter of moments passed before his phone whistled with a text.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the younger Holmes brother.

In the two years John had known Sherlock he’d met his infamous brother twice; once moments after meeting Sherlock to be quizzed within an inch of his life, and again when Mycroft tried to pay John and his baby to go away. It was safe to say John wasn’t Mycroft’s number one fan.

The text was, surprisingly, brief: That wasn’t to say it could strike fear into John’s heart and irritate the boy beyond belief in merely four words.

_Put the kettle on. – Mycroft Holmes._

***

John didn’t have to wait five minutes before there was a knock at the door and he huffed heavily, the kettle whistling just as he made it out of the kitchen. He rubbed a hand across his back, sore from only standing about half an hour, and clicked the door open, nodding at Mycroft and waving him in as if he had a choice what the man (despite Sherlock’s protests, at 25 Mycroft really was a _man_ ) did. Immediately the banker (at least, that’s what he’d been told Mycroft did – honestly he wasn’t all that certain) started talking.

“Now, Mr Watson. I have a business trip to America in three days and an awful lot to do before then so I’ll make this brief – you’re nineteen, yes?”

John blinked, disregarding the boiling kettle in favour of sitting down and rubbing a hand over his aching stomach. He was seriously regretting his decision to wear an old tee-shirt and pair of cheap paternity jeans. “Yeah, I am,”

Mycroft nodded sharply, eyes flicking round the room presumably in search of somewhere other than the sofa to sit and mouth twisting as he realised there was nothing else. “And my brother is sixteen, as I am sure you are well aware. Sixteen, eight months, and three weeks if you wished to be exact about it.” He watched John through hawk eyes, folding his arms and standing in such a way that implied he could use something to help prop him up. “You are, I’m sure, aware of my brother’s… experiments with certain illicit drugs.”

“Do you mean his cocaine addiction or that time he tested the solubility of weed in hydrochloric acid?”

Mycroft looked as if he’d just smelt a bad cheese, “I can only hope you’re being wilfully obtuse, Mr Watson.”

John smiled a sugar sweet smile and tapped a hand lightly on his belly as Amelia kicked out. “My name’s John, you know. You could just call me John.”

“If it’s all the same to you – _Mr Watson_. You may remember meeting with me seven months ago. I offered you a substantial amount of money to leave Sherlock alone, I had hoped you would extract both yourself and this... child from his life. I am here today as I have recognised I made a mistake.”

John raised an eyebrow in surprise and sat up a little straighter, internally willing Amelia to stop her insistent kicking of his bladder. “What are you saying? You’re okay with me and Amelia staying in Sherlock’s life? You’ll stop all this… secret bargaining?”

Mycroft smirked, the expression eerily similar to one of Sherlock’s, and shook his head, “Do not be so maudlin. This child,” he inclined his head towards John’s abdomen, “Is still an issue. An unplanned child born to two unprepared teenagers, one of which has a... a drug addiction and the other of which with no hopes of any sort of career, is not right. Your belief you will be able to raise it, while well meant, is misplaced and will only result in an unhappy childhood. Furthermore you seem to be deluded that Sherlock will stay by your side and become the perfect father. My brother is capable of great things – but no man is going to flick from what he is today to a father tomorrow,”

“I thought you were going back on something you said?” John snapped, “This all just seems like a different version of what you said all those months ago.”

“Ah, yes,” Mycroft pushed a hand into his jacket pocket, making him look a bit like a penguin attempting to fit in with a group of meerkats, “I was wrong when I told you that you should leave.”

He stopped for a moment, allowing for John to respond. John just stared at him as if he’d invented the sandwich toaster.

“I believe that you could be good for my brother, John. While your childhood was not ideal you still came out… adequate. From what I have witnessed your moral compass, while sometimes a little misguided, is strong and you clearly care, perhaps too much, about other people. I believe the saying is that two wrongs make a right. You obviously have some form of emotional connection to my brother and I believe if he stands any hope of growing up to be any sort of man at all he needs you there.”

Silence rang out and John swallowed loudly, absently rubbing a hand along his stomach. “So,” he finally said, “You want me, but not Amelia. Does Sherlock’s opinion not matter to you? You do realise he picked her name, right?”

Mycroft smiled indulgently, “Of course, Amelia. I don’t suppose you ever thought about what that name meant.” He pulled his hand from his pocket and picked at invisible lint on his suit trousers for a moment, “My brother used to try and hide his drug habits from me, Mr Watson. He no longer does. Today, in fact, he took hold of a needle while staring me right in the eyes. Think about that, hmm?”


	4. Chapter 4

John took a large bite of his sandwich, humming happily at the perfect salty-sweet combination and closing his eyes unconsciously. His second bite is interrupted as his stomach twinged again, this time slightly stronger. He discarded the sandwich on the floor as a third twinge – not really a twinge anymore, a clear pain – caught his attention and had him swearing quietly under his breath. By the time he felt a fourth his phone was in hand – Sherlock’s number displayed – and panicked thoughts of rapid labour were flittering through his head. Rare for a first child, of course, but not impossible. He hit call and took a breath, vaguely conscious that this could be nothing and his hormones may be simply blowing everything out of proportion.

The phone clicked loudly but no voice came on, “Sherlock? Sherlock are you there?”

A hum was the only response he received.

“I need you to come,” he paused as another pain racked his body, “Come home. I think I’m in labour.”

There was a cough on the end of the phone before a giggle, then a loud crash followed by the dial tone: Bloody marvellous. Another pain had John bending over (as much as his child would allow) and his previous panic tripled as he realised his pants felt somewhat wetter than they did ten minutes ago. The thought occurred to him to time the space between contractions but he decided ‘not enough’ would do. He rang Sherlock again but this time the phone went straight to voice mail.

He was not about to have this bloody child all alone.

John smashed a few keys on his phone until he was presented with a long list of contacts and he groaned, whether it was due to the pain or the desperate feeling of complete isolation he wasn’t sure. He scrolled awkwardly through trails of names and felt his heart sink lowers into his chest: His parents, currently on holiday in Scotland, clearly weren’t an option: His friends, while perhaps Mike or Sarah might be willing to help, were all at university and only Seb (odd lad, good at rugby but pretty damn terrifying) was in the nearby area: Only one number remained and John wasn’t entirely convinced the man wouldn’t try and kill Amelia before she even took her first breath.

The decision was taken out of his hands when a fresh new pain hit him and his fingers hit the ‘call’ key without permission.

“Mr Watson, unless you’re calling to inform me you’ve had a change of heart-”

A string of curses cut Mycroft Holmes off mid-spiel and after a pause he spoke again, voice slightly softer, “John?”

“Mycroft – _shit_ – please, I need you to not be a complete and uttering – _fucking_ – dickhead right now. I think I’m in labour and your _bloody shit_ of a brother isn’t answering his phone.”

There was a pause and John could almost hear Mycroft thinking, “Is it possible these are just practice contractions? I highly doubt your labour could have reached such a serious stage so quickly.”

John closed his eyes, using his free hand to massage his belly, “I’ve been getting light pains all day – twinges here and there. I assume it was nothing and now…” he took in a long breath and let it out slowly, “I read somewhere about this thing called rapid labour. People have light contractions and then they can suddenly increase, the labour as a whole lasting four hours. If I’ve been having contractions all day and I’m only noticing now I _really_ need someone here.”

Another pause, this one longer, and John wondered if Mycroft was really such a knob as to hang up on the teenager about to give birth to his niece. “Mycroft? Mycroft I need you to _find Sherlock_.”

Mycroft’s voice sounded just a little broken, “My brother is indisposed.”

“Indisposed? What the bloody hell does that- oh.” John squeezed his eyes shut and swore he was not about to add crying to his long list of failures today, “He’s high, isn’t he? He’s high and I’m in labour and for all that talk you talk about wanting to protect him everything’s about to go to shit and you can’t deny that really you’ve got quite a bit to do with that.”

A third pause, enough time for John start to regretting his words and Amelia to shift a little lower, digging painfully into his pelvis.

“I’m terribly sorry to hear about your situation, Mr Watson.” Mycroft’s voice was cold and clipped – a tone he recognised as ‘the Holmes hurt voice’. “I have ensured that an ambulance is on its way and my brother will be with you as soon as he remembers his own name.” a breath and a tapping sound was heard before a very quiet ‘good luck’ and the dial tone beeped coldly for what seemed like the millionth time that day.

Once again, John found himself alone.


	5. Chapter 5

Three and a half hours later Sherlock burst into a private hospital room (room number 221) and stared with wide, terrified eyes at his boyfriend, lying on his back with his eyes closed and hair stuck up in odd places. He bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood and rubbed his arm quickly to distract himself from the emotional turmoil he was suffering inside. With a few quick steps he was by John’s side, rubbing a hand lightly through his hair and resolutely ignoring the tears filling his eyes. “John?” John hummed, clearly just on the cusp between sleep and wakefulness, “John, I need you to wake up. It’s me, it’s – ah – it’s me. I’m so sorry. I’ve messed up and… shit I’m _so_ sorry.”

John’s bleary eyes blinked open and he squinted at Sherlock. His expression was one Sherlock found impossible to identify and after quickly rummaging through a file in his brian saved as ‘John’s expressions’ e found it wasn’t one he’d encountered before. He was about to speak when John beat him to it, the boys words confusing him even more.

“Work; effort; strain.”

John’s darling raven-haired boy blinked and shook his head, “Labour?”

John smiled, “Amelia.”

Sherlock went quite for a moment, sinking into the plastic chair besides John’s bed. “Oh,”

John tried to shift into a sitting position but his empty stomach panged and ached, so he remained lying down. “You asked your brother for help today. Of course, you’re a bloody idiot do you couldn’t do it like a normal person but... you did. You asked for help., didn’t you?”

Sherlock frowned then looked away, staring out of the window. John could tell he was still listening.

“I don’t want to assume for you; not again. So I’m going to ask you something even though I think I know the answer.” No reaction came from Sherlock, though John was hardly expecting one. “Do you want this baby?”

Grey eyes locked onto blue ones and Sherlock looked about ready to break in two. John knew the feeling. An eternity, or perhaps just a few seconds, passed and when Sherlock spoke a single syllable the future of three lives shifted.

“No.”

John barked a mirthless laugh and just as Sherlock started to retract what he said he shook his head, “No, don’t. It’s alright. It’s... well, yeah, it’s alright.”

John seemed to stop talking so Sherlock started up, “But you want it, John. You want it and I want you so-”

“I don’t.”

“What?”

John licked his lips and looked away, eyes flickering anywhere but Sherlock’s desperately confused expression. “I think I’ve been trying to convince myself that I do. Been trying to persuade myself that I’m not my parents, and that I’m capable of loving and caring for my own child the way they never could. But I’m not even twenty. I love Amelia and I care for her but that isn’t enough. She needs someone to look after her and it can’t be us, can it? Not when we’re still children ourselves.” Finally he built up the courage to look at Sherlock and it was almost his undoing, “I love both of you too much to force you into anything less than a perfect family.”

Sherlock reached for John’s hand, cool bony fingers interlacing with solid clammy ones. His voice was deceptively blank when he spoke, “What do you propose, then?”

“Your brother said he was going to New York on a business trip in a few days. Maybe she could be happy there.”

“And us?”

“What do you want for us?”

“I want to get clean and work on that perfect family you mentioned.”

“With me?”

Sherlock smiled and he leaned in, pressing a firm kiss on John’s mouth and rubbing their noses together. “With you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
